


the games we played as children

by caandleknight



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bellarke, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sex, Modern AU, So much hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29553912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caandleknight/pseuds/caandleknight
Summary: Kisses Bellamy and Clarke shared as their lives were falling apart, five of them, (or a little more).
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53
Collections: bellarkescord valentine gift exchange 2021





	the games we played as children

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carrieevew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrieevew/gifts).



_Right from when she’d met Bellamy, he’d intrigued her, held her gaze;_

_his brown eyes were as heavy as his shoulders._

..

.

.

**_i._ **

(Once, she kissed him and it tasted like blood.

God, it was _dumb._ )

He was the boy on the second floor, in the apartment under hers. 

The one always in fights, hands wrapped, knuckles bloody. _Always._ Clarke slipped her crayon drawings to him beneath the door of their apartment when she heard the pounding on the walls.

When Aurora had guests, Clarke had invited them over for cake, or video games on her dad’s Wii. The apartment stank of downtown dust, smelled of fumes, and the brick wall out the window was a hell of a view. 

She’d raced the halls with Octavia as a girl, and he’d played sometimes too, running from her father’s full laugh. Many kids near their ages joined in, and—of course, neighbours complained—they moved it to the parking lot around the building. Cracked concrete and potholes. Dusty cars parked outside of the lines. 

He’d rarely said a word to her.

(She learned later in life, as her cheeks lost their baby fat, and her eyes lost their idealism, that Aurora’s guests were not there for a play date.

It took a girl, entirely just eleven, in a pale orange nightgown, her brother’s hand locked in hers. His face was sour. How could he be so angry, at _thirteen?_

Maybe it had to do with his jacket, the one that was four sizes too large. 

He promised he was fine, but the blood dripping from his mouth was thick, and made different promises.)

“Papa,” Clarke asked, bouncing on her father’s knee as they watched a soccer game on the old-style television.

“Yes?”

The words hadn’t formed yet, but she wanted to ask. She swallowed, watched a man boot the ball. “Is Bellamy’s lip okay?”

Her father tensed. “He’s a strong boy.”

_Why can’t we help him? Help them, Papa?_ She never asked; her father never answered, but Clarke—even at eleven-turning-twelve—knew this was just like the algebra in math class.

A language with seemingly obvious answers, but there were always new variables.

All she knew, her constant, was that her home was safe for them, any and all.

..

Eleven-turned-twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

She had this crush on him for _years._ She never exactly knew why, but as she got older, she realized her answer was probably simple: his curls, the freckles, and though he was not towering, he carried himself with strength. 

(Yet so much shame, bricks of it, even.)

He never seemed to see her, passed the kindhearted girl who would let them hide. He _was_ older, after all, by only two years. 

Him never seeing her wasn’t too bothersome. Being _seen_ terrified Clarke—not anxiously, or self-consciously.

But to matter like that to someone. 

To matter like her mother mattered to her father, while all her mother saw was her next fix. How loved Finn, only for him to runaway with some other girl. It was terrifyingly unreliable. Clarke liked practical.

Clarke liked being in love with the unattainable, with the _practical._ The broken. The uninterested. It burdened only her heart with longing. 

It left everyone else alone.

..

When she turned sixteen, her father died.

After him, things didn’t change. Her mother didn’t. Their lives didn’t. Sometimes, she still felt banging beneath her feet, and she didn’t want to think about it, but she did anyway. Clarke was Clarke, she overthought everything. Clarke would text Octavia’s shattered _iPhone 4:_

_cake?_

They’d show. Sometimes, just Octavia showed.

All the time—every single time they were over—she thought of her Papa, and soccer, and bloody lips.

She thought of the unattainable, beneath death, within every breath. 

..

Clarke got a job at the library three blocks down from their building, two weeks after her birthday, twelve days after the accident.

It was a good distraction. 

A monotonous one: so very perfect. 

One day, during her shift, she saw the ad board. Her father always lingered in her mind, every second of every day.

_“So much talent, Clarke.”_

On the library’s clipboard, the ad hung ragged with twenty slots empty. She dusted the counter and desktop computers beneath it, a sting behind her eyes. The duster was a paintbrush. 

(She finally caved after two months, signing her name in the last slot.)

It conflicted with her work and she knew that. Clarke compromised with her mother and her boss for three hour shifts, five to eight in the morning, Tuesdays and Fridays. She’d go to work, then school, and then _art._

Abby yelled, and criticized, a tongue of knives—and in the same heaving breath, injected morphine. 

Clarke sighed at her bitter thoughts, wiping sleep from her eyes, trudging in for her first morning of work. She _hated_ mornings. Her lungs tightened. Her head hurt. The walls were too baby blue, too cracked, but her excitement was simmering already. 

Was art a waste of time? Yes. Abby was sure she knew.

..

Half an hour in, she saw _him_.

His leather jacket and wry hair, and the way he crunched his hands in his pockets always gave him away. His shoulders seemed as tired as she felt. Clarke dropped her gaze to her desk. 

The library. At—her eyes flicked to the clock above her desk—5:37 in the morning?

If she remembered correctly, he turned eighteen last month, but she didn’t often see him in school. She didn’t understand that, knowing full well she didn’t want to. He was a scholar, at heart, telling Octavia all these beautiful stories, (and when Clarke had wheedled her way into the top right valve of his heart, he told her some too). 

She chewed her lip. What did she know? 

So she sketched relentlessly until six, when she finally worked up the nerve to talk to him.

He was staring down the historical fiction section, burning through the book spines like new ones might appear. Behind him, she stood, two books in her hand, one an autobiography, the other had a pale green cover; she hesitated for half a second, before asking, “Are you here every morning?” 

He jumped, twisting. 

She knew the moment he recognized her. He didn’t say anything, freezing up. She wondered if it was vague recollection, or if sparks of childhood skittered his mind fondly. Were her crayon drawings still on the fridge? 

The logs took some stoking, but the sparks came tumbling, hued orange, and small, the kind you ran from, giggling screams. 

The ones that burned, but were just _so pretty_.

“Clarke.” Shoulders shrugged. “Hey.” He remembered her enough for a name. “Most mornings.” She made an acknowledging sound, drawing his gaze. His lips ticked up. “You look like hell.” 

So that was how it was. She glared kindly.

“Thanks, man.”

As she pushed the pale green novel on the shelf, she noticed the book beneath his arm. It felt off, for the persona he oozed, for the boy she’d once known; that impulsive shithead, in too many fights. It made so much sense though. After all, boys didn’t just _know_ the stories they told their sisters. 

They heard them, maybe lived them. 

They held them beneath their arms like responsibilities, and Bellamy Blake knew an awful lot about responsibility. 

He turned back to his shelf as she moved to the _YA_ section to put away her other, lights buzzing down on her. 

Plopping down at the front desk, her eyes blurred. She yawned.

_Screw_ mornings.

The clock overhead ticked rhythmically. Inventory kept her busy, and he was at the counter within half an hour, pushing three aged novels toward her, spines cracked, pages previously sodden.

She clicked through a few menus on the computer, asked if he had a library card—which he _did—_ and scanned it. It was a beep too loud for a time before sunrise. “These are due three weeks from now.” He took the books in his strong hands.

Then, he stalled. 

Up close she could see the jacket he wore so much better. The same one: ‘four sizes too big’ now fit his broad shoulders, but it was patchy and threadbare, stitched together like a shoddy knot. The zipper was rusty. 

(Stitching things together was a skill he’d known for so long, but while some were given titanium wire, he was given spider webs.)

All she remembered—printer gurgling, clock ticking, lights buzzing, was— _his mother was a seamstress, once._

“Thank you.” Clarke nodded, and he was gone.

(He was pretty. He was older. He wasn’t even looking at her.)

  
  


..

She had math with Octavia. 

The minutes were long, but they met each other’s gaze in eyebrows lifts and stuck out tongues across class.

“I didn’t know you worked at the library,” she whispered the moment they paired up for the partner project. Parabolas stared up at them from the paper. Clarke stared at her, fiddling an orange pencil in her fingers. “My brother told me.”

Find the constant, her _c value._

“Funny,” she murmured, looking at the whiteboard. Mr. Pike’s script was scratchy, in bright, erasable cyan. “He barely even talks to me.”

Octavia grinned, shrugging.

Those were the eyes of someone with a secret, or a lie. “He’s not the friendliest.” Clarke laughed quietly into her hand. 

_“No,”_ she jibed sarcastically. 

As class pulled to a close, and they packed up their binders, Octavia said, “Tonight?” 

“My place.”

“Of course,” Octavia chuckled, sliding her textbook in her bag.

Mr. Pike said like: “class isn’t over!” but then the bell rang.

..

Her next morning shift, he pressed a thermos across the counter. 

Her surprise was palpable. “It’s coffee,” he explained as the silence stretched. Hesitation. Picked it up. She sniffed it, nose scrunching.

“I don’t like coffee,” she told him.

“Oh.” A pause. “Neither do I.” She grinned, relieved, pushing it back. As it stood, it was 5:44 AM, and neither of them liked the cup of coffee he brought. She wiped her eyes. “You really _are_ here every morning?” He shrugged in good nature, grinning as he wandered to hibernate in the shelves. 

She smiled like a whisper. 

..

On Tuesday he presented her peppermint tea.

Apparently, he didn’t like _that_ either, but she did, and his mother had an old probably expired batch. It was sweet of him to make her some.

He was gone by six in the morning, like always, and she was left with a cool thermos of tea. 

It sat in her bag all through school, so in the way, _annoyingly_ in the way, but it made her feel soft. The smell of it. It reminded Clarke of the candy canes she used to plow through in December with Octavia and Raven.

Clarke took it home, washing it like the metal was maliable until her fingers pruned.

At five, she left the thermos before the Blakes’ door, room _B219._

..

At home, she left the door unlocked. 

The apartment was disturbingly empty, one black, wretched couch, dandruff on every edge, one smack from exploding like flour.

The walls were cracked, the kitchen was empty, but there was a fridge with nothing in it. 

Raven was there, and then Monty and Jasper. They weren’t the partying kind of kids. Well, Jasper was, but he didn’t force that on them. They played card games, tried some of Monty’s moonshine, but they _laughed_ like their world’s weren’t falling apart. 

Clarke hated and loved it. Their building was infused in trauma; fathers left, died, kids starved. 

It was three floors. Not a single thing matched outside the colour of the doors, but it was something of a family. Clarke laughed as Jasper spilled his glass of milk in his bowl of off-brand Cheeto puffs.

They took care of each other. 

Clarke often grinned at the holes in the walls like they were old friends. Sometimes, she could see her real friends _through_ them. 

When her mother lost her job, and her father had to carry them, they’d moved in. 

To cover their struggle, her papa had made up tales about the holes in the walls, the kind she remembered Bellamy loving. 

Even before his death, Jake Griffin’s apartment was a place for the lonely, the kids who wanted friends, (and her mother. he loved Abby.)

Raven’s mom used the welfare money on booze, she was safe at the Griffin’s—they all were. Clarke’s apartment was in the top right corner of the building, right above the Blake’s and to the right of Vera Kane. 

Clarke loved making somewhere the people she loved could hide. 

After her father died, Clarke didn’t know what to do. For as much as Jake loved Abby, he knew her best; he gave Marcus Kane, their building manager, payments in advance until Clarke was nineteen. 

So it was still a place people could sleep.

The rest of her mother’s money, reputation, and pride went into morphine, Clarke mused as she sipped her moonshine. She laughed as Monty knocked over the Jenga tower.

Built on trauma. 

..

She started looking forward to her mornings, as disgusting as they were.

On a practical level, she preferred after school shifts. On Wednesdays and Fridays, Clarke worked from four after school until ten. It was like that every week, monotony. 

But mornings. Mornings she had peppermint tea to look forward to. 

Yes, the (expired) _tea._

But she liked after school too. It was peaceful, a little busier, but it was a library. People never stayed. 

At nine-thirty, as she shelved _YA fiction_ , lights buzzing above, he dragged his feet in. His nose was bloody. His eye bruised. He wore a different jacket. A navy blue. It looked almost… _new._ (Minus the rips and the tears, but only one size too big). For an awful few breaths, all she could do was stare, a shredded copy of _the Maze Runner_ in her hands.

She shoved it onto the wooden shelf with a gasp, “ _Bellamy_.”

Rushing to him, her fingers rose to cradle his jaw, rambling about the hospital and many other anecdotes. “Too expensive,” he grumbled delicately, gripping her elbow to pull her hand away. 

His face was closed and bitter, but screaming all the same, like he’d bitten rotting fruit.

She knew he was right, but his left brow was bleeding, knuckles rusting over with brown blood. _What happened?_ Her heart was in her ears, pounding away at the door of her logic.

“Finish your shift.”

“But-“ he flinched.

“- _Clarke.”_

The way he said it, so small, and nervous, it reminded her of the first time he called her _“Princess”._ The game they played as children, when he was the rebel knight, when her father was the king. When everything was okay, (seemed okay). 

The trays of books suddenly felt suffocating. She wanted them done, and she wanted to lock the doors, and she wanted to _fix it._ The lights were still buzzing, in that bright, exhausting way as his eyes scattered for purchase on her features. His cheek was tender, bruising beneath her palm.

So she ignored him.

The outdoor lights were off, and the doors locked. She flipped the sign to closed. The reading crazed could wait. 

A boy was bleeding. 

Those same crazed were ones for drama: she was sure they’d understand.

The white, metal, medkit beneath the front desk was to be in her thank yous for the foreseeable future. As she retrieved it, she told him to prop up on the table.

He did, shouldering the stained circle remnant of a thermos, and his nose scrunched at the movement. When his other thumb rubbed at his wrist, she saw how it swelled. She might need to set that. 

Sometimes, Clarke hated being right.

Placing the medkit at his side, she flicked it open. Clarke started with his face, brushing the curls from his forehead. _What happened?_

The next thirty seconds were all practicality, refined. 

Rubbing alcohol, cotton swab. Lip. He cringed at the zing. It freed her from the trance. “What are you doing here?” she murmured, hand cupping his neck. She could feel his pulse.

It took a moment; “I knew you were working.”

“What about Miller?” His brows rose awkwardly due to his swelling eye, but the message came through. Her skin warmed, and she glanced down, focusing on the cold alcohol on her fingertips. “Octavia told me he was your best friend.” Rubbing alcohol pulled the heat from her fingers.

“At your little parties.”

“They aren’t-“

“-I know.” She pressed his wrist lightly. “He’s not home.” Clarke had a thought, wiping his brow with the cotton. It came away red, with flakes of scab. 

“Why didn’t you go home?” 

Nothing. He didn’t answer. He clenched his teeth, his shoulders, his fists. She was sure his heart closed off too. She wiped his forehead again, blood gushing out immediately after. She swallowed. He’d need stitches. _Still_ nothing. Her heart throbbed painfully, right through her ears, but she couldn’t feel his anymore. _Closed off._

_Home was where it happened_.

Clarke had learned years ago what Aurora’s ‘work’ was, and how cruel her clients could be, and she knew assumptions could be a death sentence but she could only imagine what Bellamy walked into, what got him here. His new jacket, torn to shreds.

He stepped in where he shouldn’t have, (or right where one always should, and was beaten for it. 

Maybe he was seen with a jacket, one Clarke knews he’d saved for, and was beaten for it. Maybe he looked at a client just the wrong way, so they beat him for it.)

He seemed to be in another universe, eyes zoning into something only he saw. “Where’s Octavia?” Her voice trembled, knowing on a logical level Bellamy would never leave her there alone with whatever hell was behind him. Still.

“Landon’s.”

“Lincoln?”

He puffed. “Whatever.” She rolled her eyes softly, rubbing at his crusting knuckles. His gaze burned her face, her brows, and her hands. She tried to smile for him, but it was ghostly, a sting behind her eyes. A brief sting. Then, gone. Tucked away into a compartment for her to never deal with:

Honestly maybe she should have expected it. 

He ran to her in the dark of night, in her _workplace,_ while he was distraught and unsure. His hands held her like he’d never forgive himself to cause her burden. 

She should have. 

His lips tasted like copper, and stung like vodka. Her eyes widened as her brain caught up, leaning her head back as he pushed forward. There was nothing to do but kiss him back, nip at his lip as he did with hers. Warmth bubbled under her skin, but with the longing, came concern.

She pulled away. 

His balance was precarious with her choice, but he righted himself on the table, lips falling into her forehead with a gasp.

Her voice was fragile. “What are you doing here, Bellamy?”

The wisp of his breath tickled her skin, and his tone was husky. “I wanted to see you.”

_You don’t know me,_ but that wasn’t exactly true. They’d known of each other for years. She was in his sister’s grade. When they were children, they played. All the time. Things changed.

Her father died. His father left. 

She met his gaze, the iris of his left eye smothered by swelling. A cut just above his brow trickled blood around his face.

She lifted the alcohol-stained cotton to his brow again, and his eyes squeezed with the sting, and then they stayed shut. Content. If he was looking for distraction in a sexual manner, he’d have to find another girl. 

But she’d give him a hug. And stitches too.

After he let her go, she began actual lockup. He loitered.

On the stairs, he slowed. She gave him an encouraging smile. At his door, _B219,_ he froze, mouth moving without knowing what to say. 

There was a thud from inside the apartment, and he flinched.

She beat him to it. “My mom won’t be home.” If she was, she’d be too high for Clarke to cause her any trouble. He didn’t answer outside of a rigid nod. Apartment _C319_ was the place where the unwanted kids went.

(The delinquents, Jasper said; like making Jell-O was such a _rule-breaking_ thing to do. 

Apartment 319 wasn’t permanent either. Nothing was. But it was _there._ Maybe, the ones-who-left didn’t like how they existed, happy even with as much as they’d been kicked behind the knees. As much as they’d marched over sizzling coals, feet bare. Dead. Gone. Addicts. Wrongly imprisoned, _rightly_ imprisoned _._ People left.

People who left didn’t like when the left-behinds moved on.)

There was definitely more than one bed, but she didn’t say anything when he collapsed into her space, barely giving time for his jacket to pillow on the floor. His armour, strewn aside in favour of her mattress (her arms). He could’ve slept on the couch.

Clarke toed her old converse off, and stripped down to a tank top.

She slid in next to him, and he left her a perfect amount of space. She wrapped him up, like a kid tucked in.

(The left-behinds always fit together so well, if they let themselves.)

..

.

.

**_ii._ **

(Once, nearly twice, she kissed him and it tasted like hot sauce.)

He never told her directly what had happened, with his family, to his lip.

Nor did they discuss the contact of said lips with hers. Should she call it a kiss? She knew it was by technicality, but the look in his eyes had said _love me, please._ It had pleaded. _Someone._

She didn’t ask him.

Besides, it wasn’t something to focus on. She had friends coming over. The great thing about owning nothing but the floorboards, and a ratty, two-person couch, was there was rarely anything to clean.

Monty and Jasper arrived first that night, lugging in a television. Raven poked her head in after; Clarke waved from the couch. Her friend dragged her bum leg with grace, so used to it now. Honestly, Clarke was astonished by Raven’s genius: building a brace from scraps after the car accident.

A brace she built because her mother chose alcohol over her daughter’s ability to walk. 

Clarke shook her head. This was _fun_ night. She needed to leave her overthinking tendencies at the door.

Raven kicked at the boys, benching Jasper, because—for all his enthusiasm—he wasn’t the most helpful. 

“Can you turn it on?” Jasper hedged, slipping his goggles up his forehead, barely concealing his excitement. He loved Mario Kart. 

“Gimme a sec!” Raven thwapped at Monty’s reaching hands distractedly.

Jasper plopped down beside Clarke, heaving dramatically. “That doesn’t make them move any quicker,” she said, melting into the cushions. 

He slid down his goggles, crossing his arms like a petulant child; but he was grinning. 

A knock came from the door. “Come in!” Clarke called. It was Wells. The next knock was Octavia. 

Octavia and _her brother._

Fear wasn’t the right word for the tone shift in the room, but he silenced them. Awe? Confusion? Pocketed hands, a wary look in his eye, he stood tall, yet Clarke knew he was shorter than Wells and Jasper. 

“Hey, Bellamy!” Monty called from beneath the TV stand. “Long time, no- ow!”

“Monty!” Raven poked his knee. “It’s not that hard.”

His presence, not forgotten, was accepted in that moment.

The nutjobs fought over how to plug in the beat up television as Clarke pushed to her feet, moving to and pulling up a corner floorboard. Her father’s old Wii sat snug. She saw his kind eyes and soft hands in her mind, a sudden flash. 

She lifted it from the depths.

“Very nice,” Bellamy commented. She glanced back, slapped the Wii in his hands, and pulled two remotes from a ziplock bag. 

Clarke answered, a grin on her lips, “Thank you.”

The TV sparked to life, (“ha!” Raven called as Jasper whined.) It had a line steadily inching its way through the screen. Murdering pixels one by one.

Bellamy carried the Wii over, but left Raven to set it up.

After migrating to the kitchen, Monty wanted to try his hand at Rice Krispy Squares. Clarke strutted to him, puffed her chest, ready to disappoint him because, _no, they don’t have any marshmallows-_ but he pulled a bag of marshmallows out of Jasper's backpack. 

So she smiled softly as he pattered away, reading the back of a Rice Krispy’s box.

Staring at Mario Kart as Octavia called first dibs with Jasper, Clarke heard yells and cheers. Players sat on the floor, and whoever won stayed there while the loser handed off their controller to the next. Wells and Raven filled in those two cushioned spots, Octavia stuffed between them, a pile of teddy bears.

“You gotta be on the floor if you’re playing!” Raven glowered at Octavia.

Octavia yelped back. Bellamy’s gaze shot between the girls.

Clarke leant on her elbows on the counter, watching as Bellamy tried to keep up with the agenda; a statue behind the couch, pretending he knew what was happening. He looked like he had walked into an exam without taking the class.

Her friends shouting (Raven, finally pushing Octavia to the floor),Clarke subtly moved her way to him. 

“You can play Octavia next,” she whispered in his ear as the game began.

_3… 2… 1… go!_

“As if she can beat Jasper.”

Clarke knocked his elbow. “She will.”

Jasper was the man of shortcuts and cheats; _no one_ beat him, but Octavia always pulled through. Jasper was so infatuated with her, he let her win, every time. Bellamy scoffed in his obliviousness. Clarke nearly tore her cheeks with her grin.

Raven slid in where she promised Bellamy could. 

He only shrugged when Clarke eyed him. He watched. Wells next. She poked Bellamy and he shook his head. “I’ll go with you,” she prodded, and his lips pulled up in a soft smile.

“I’m not _nervous_ ,” he said, shrugging. “I’ll play next time.” The promise of _next time_ was enough for her to let it be.

Monty rarely played, but tonight he tried. “Monty, the Master of Moonshine,” was chanted as he crossed the finish line in 11th place. 

Bellamy didn’t even take off his jacket, but she was glad he came. If anything.

..

(All her friends passed out on the floor, she plundered in the dark, adjusting necks, and covering people with sheets to keep warm.

Bellamy was the only other one awake: he picked up Octavia in his arms and set her on the couch. He looked up and met Clarke’s gaze, a relief of tension, like a popping eardrum after elevation change. 

“He would be so proud of you, Princess.”

It echoed through her apartment. She remembered dancing on her father’s feet. She remembered how her heart rate skyrocketed when there had been a knock on the door. It’d meant _play._

_Hide and Seek. Tag. Cops and Robbers. Princess and the Knight._

Maybe, it was the dark. Or the time, (3 A.M.), or it was nothing at all. “ _Princess.”_ Her father was the king, Wells was her brotherly prince, and Jasper was the dragon. (Octavia was a ninja. No one told her that wasn’t part of the game. No one cared.) Bellamy was the knight. Or the rebel. He was telling his own damn story. _Princess._

He hadn’t called her that in _years_.

“I hope so,” she murmured, cheeks bright, heart warm. Her father was somewhere else now, maybe nowhere at all, but if he was here-

“He is.”

She met his eyes, dark, honest, with the sting of tears behind her own. She smiled at her knight. Her rebel. Her king, (whatever the hell she’d asked of him as kids).

..

He played next time, chose Bowser, and was destroyed by Jasper. 

They all laughed as Jasper was ripped into a headlock by Bellamy, his goofy goggles being pushed so hard into his head they might fuse together. Bellamy guffawed, out loud, so full.

It was the first true laugh she’d heard from him since she was eight. First full smile she’d seen.

She’d seen him smirk plenty, seen him wander the halls with a thunderous expression, stopping to flirt with every girl in a skirt, but no smile.

She played Jasper, and lost, Bellamy teased her for it. 

Then, Octavia won and beat Wells, lost to Raven, and Raven beat Bellamy.

“It seems we’re just awful,” Clarke elbowed him and he scoffed loosely, mirth in his eyes. 

The night ended, and they slept, Clarke and Bellamy scouring for scans and bent necks, like the hovering protectors they were.

Most of these kids didn’t have beds at home.

She packed away the Wii under the floorboards. Jasper took his TV home then came back, because those things could not be trusted with her mother.

In her room, there was a mattress on floor, stained, and springy. 

She had an urge to invite Bellamy to sleep next to her, watching as he pulled a blanket over Octavia.

How did one ask a question like that?

She didn’t. 

..

“Can I bring John Murphy?” he asked a month or so later.

Octavia was flummoxed, badgering the aforementioned boy relentlessly. _Bully. Asshole. Psycho motherfucker._ Clarke didn’t say a thing, but her knuckles were suddenly sore, remembering a punch. Murphy was a kid on the ground floor, the one who liked fire but hated when things burned.

Bellamy’s taste wasn’t awful either. After all, Clarke quite liked Miller, his best friend, and definitely loved Harper.

So, she decided to trust him, even though half the room didn’t.

“After all,” she said, scanning his new wave of books, “it is _your_ birthday _.”_

He smiled, what was supposed to be a grin, but it was soft. He muttered, “Happy nineteenth,” to himself, slipping away.

..

Turned out, Murphy was a take-him-or-leave-him kind of asshole. 

While Octavia and Wells played Mario Kart—Octavia grumbling about how _Murphy sucked_ —Monty pulled out twelve red solo cups from his bag. Jasper screamed. Bellamy grinned, slapping Jasper’s shoulder so hard he nearly tumbled. 

She set the table. Miller called on Bellamy, and Jasper went with Monty. 

Everyone was partnering up, everyone but Murphy, whose eyes skimmed Bellamy, panicked, before hardening into a sardonic mask. 

Clarke saw Wells push to his feet to be her partner, but she subtly shook her head at him.

Then, she called dibs on Murphy. 

His eyes widened, and she wondered if he remembered grade five, when she had nearly broken his nose, because he wouldn’t leave that same Wells Jaha alone.

She raised her brows at Bellamy, full of fire and challenge. He squared his shoulders, glaring. It was another thing she remembered about Bellamy Blake: he didn’t turn down a challenge. 

_Ever_.

He wore a blue T-shirt, sweat staining his collar, and it thrilled her to see him comfortable. It had taken him two weeks to take off his jacket, but he had. 

It hung on her bedroom’s door knob.

..

Her and Murphy weren’t completely doing awful. 

Bellamy and Miller had five cups left, and they had four. “Sorry,” he muttered, tossing the ping pong. It ricocheted off the rim, resulting in endless taunting. Orange ball in hand, she shifted minutely to look at him. “For all the bullying.”

It had taken him a pot brownie, and chugging two cups of beer, but he was apologizing, six years later. 

Her teeth broke into a grin, fingers rubbing her long-healed knuckles. She lined up her shot, admitting, “I needed the practice.” Then, she threw, bouncing the ball on the table. It plopped in the middle cup, silencing the room.

Bellamy glowered at the cup in confusion.

Cheers blasted at Clarke’s _“epic shot!”- Jasper Jordan,_ (in an announcer’s voice _)_. 

Miller gulped it down as Bellamy started yapping. While everyone argued about the logistics of her shot, whether it was legal, she turned to her partner. “Don’t worry about it. We were only kids.”

Then, she went on shouting at Bellamy; he had the gall to accuse her of cheating. He glared. She swore, and Jasper shot his hands up. 

“Simmer!” he yelped. “Referee says legal!”

With one final glare, her and Bellamy settled. Miller shot, hit, and Bellamy missed, amusing her. The game went on. 

Finally, there was only one cup, and Murphy was the one who had to hit it.

The room was quiet as he lined it up, narrowing his brows. The world rested on whether he made this shot, Clarke was sure of it. He released. It seemed to freeze in the air, never resolving.

_Plunk._

“Oh, _fuck_ that!” Bellamy yelled, taking the ball from the cup and chugging it down. When he pulled back the cup—she hadn’t realized it—but she was there, just beneath his nose. Mocks lined her tongue.

“Just beat your ass.” She laughed, hands on her hips.

He raised a brow, leaning over her. “Keep talking.”

She heard the brief _tick_ of the plastic cup on the table, maybe: she wasn’t sure.

The darkness in his eyes made her choke down any response. Flint sparked between them, begging to start a forest fire. Her skin tingled in a rush. Everyone knew, when forcing the matching sides of a magnet together, they repulsed, trembled apart. It was a constant state of limbo: come here, and get the fuck away.

“I will,” she finally answered, far too breathlessly. His lips were smug. 

Eyes heavy and full, leaning over her ever more, he tucked hair behind her ear. Her heart stuttered, rippling through her bones. He growl-whispered, “Good game, Princess.”

She wanted to kiss him, right there, grab his shirt and pull him into her lips. 

(She didn’t ask him to sleep next to her, but that was where he was in the morning. He smiled at her tiredly when she opened her eyes. She hummed drifting off again.)

..

Three days after he turned nineteen, he got a job as a bartender.

For weeks, Bellamy spent hours in her apartment raving about how shit the pay was. “If you be nice,” she told him once as they sat on the couch, lifting her gaze from her sketchbook, “you’ll get more tips.”

“I’m not _rude_.” She laughed, out loud, and he pouted, poking her with his foot.

“Treat the customer like you _enjoy_ being around them.”

He leaned back, grin wicked. “Like you’re so _good_ at it.”

She rolled her eyes, kicking at him. “I’m a librarian,” she gave him a smile, mockingly sweet. “Telling you to shut up is in the job description.”

Clarke could tell he was mulling over his suggestion like it pained him. 

“For god’s sake, Bellamy,” she smacked her pencil on the paper, looking up at him. “You don’t have to tell them about _yourself._ Listen. When they flirt, return it. You’re good at it.”

Her eyes widened. She snatched her pencil, pressing a harsh line into the tree, heart squeezing as it realized what she’d said. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her gaze pinned him as he took up space arrogantly, arm thrown over the back of the couch, his toes pushing into her shin, grin on his lips. She pursed her lips. Flicked her pencil at him. “You should.”

He raised a brow, chuckling, and a laugh broke her lips too.

..

It turned out, Murphy was a take-him-and-never-leave-him kind of asshole, (because everyone was always leaving him). 

He was the guy who came and went, who took your beer, leaving a middle finger behind, but he’d bake brownies to make up for it. Never said please, never said thank you, but never asked for anything.

He dropped in as often as the rest of them, and with every trivia Clarke learned about him, she was ever gladder she agreed.

His mother was as broken as her own, maybe worse, and his father got shot at a pharmacy shoplift gone wrong. 

Murphy was a lot like Bellamy.

She realized that fact when Bellamy was helping her study. He looked at her notes like something to ravage, a girl to fuck against the wall, (she blushed) like they would save him. She realized that most book he got were some historical commentary. He was in love with the nameless, the in betweens who didn’t matter as much as the emperors who changed the world. 

Bellamy was a take-him-don’t-ever-leave-him kind of asshole too.

“The Pantheon and Parthenon are different things, Clarke.”

She should be listening to what he was saying. She knew that. But the fire in his eyes called to her. She’d burn to death and do it smiling. 

Never leaving him seemed like a plan.

..

Her shifts had changed long ago to after school when her art class ended. 

Bellamy still hung out with her for a few hours. He slept the days in her apartment, in her bed, and the nights sprawled out with the rest of the delinquents after he got home from work.

She went to school, and then went to work.

“Gotta go, Princess,” he’d say, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. His hair was always wild, the branches of a tree with too many leaves, and every night, she’d wish him good luck. 

This little system of theirs was a fragile thing, on all the variables except one. She trusted him, and he trusted her. He was always home by three in the morning, stinking of booze and cigarettes, but his eyes were clear, breath fresh. He’d shower, put on the sleep clothes she’d left out for him, and climb into bed with her. He’d mumble her a _g’night,_ voice tired but direct. 

It was a job to him, the cigarettes and alcohol, not a life-engulfing addiction, and after his job, he came home to her.

..

Their friends said nothing the days Bellamy fell out of her room. 

But on the walk to school, Raven usually had a comment or two, not too biting, but _there._ Clarke didn’t really know what to say. _Lovers_ was a lie, and _friends_ felt like a lie too. _Boyfriend_ felt childish.

He was Bellamy, her knight, her rebel king.

He decided she mattered to him, she explained to Raven, so now she was his responsibility, next to his sister, and his mother. 

She nearly stumbled, when Raven said, “You make it sound like a chore.”

She never thought she was a chore, but it _was_ Bellamy. 

Did he know how to love properly? Beyond taking beatings and not knowing how to say _no?_ Did he? 

Her heart was slowly breaking more with every day she knew him.

..

Abby Griffin died of an overdose. 

On a Wednesday after school, Clarke came home to a woman on the floor, a shell, a stranger. She didn’t know what to do, other than call the police, and then Kane.

Then, Bellamy.

She should feel much more than empty. Should feel anything at all. But as Kane signed papers and Abby’s body was taken away, Clarke only thought of how she couldn’t afford this place. Or truly own it. She thought, _Couldn’t she have waited a month?_ like the awful daughter she was. Could it be in her name? She wasn’t eighteen.

All her friends were watching outside the door, and Kane didn’t even pretend to ignore them. 

He was going to let her stay, but he’d need to work the papers, and she was so close to eighteen, but social services- it was going to be _so much work._

“I’ll take the apartment.”

Bellamy Blake. At the back of the group, hands in his _fucking pockets_. He signed some weird lease, and Kane gave her what was left of her father’s money.

The night was spent silent, with her friends. 

They left eventually, to their own broken families. He didn’t. He held her, tight, in his arms, protected her in his soul. Still, she felt barely nothing, but she wanted him to stay, but _leave._

She wanted to be less and more alone.

..

  
  


On her eighteenth birthday, Bellamy invited her down to the bar after her shift.

After that first time he’d kissed her, he never tried again. For as much as they relied on each other—confessing in the dark, crying on their shoulders—they rarely had fun, and he didn’t try again. Saving each other’s homes, destined to live above the sound of his mother being fucked into the wall.

She hated it so much. 

_“Come to the bar,”_ he’d said, pressing her key into her palm, (proving that he wasn’t _demanding_ it. She had a choice here.)

Before her mother died, they left the door unlocked. Nothing to steal. Now she didn’t even hide the Wii. All her other friends knew how to pick a lock, so they could get by too. Not Wells, she supposed, but he was managing.

Thumbing the key, she watched him go. Hair wild, back taut.

..

When her shift ended, Clarke rushed home to look pretty, darkening her brows and around her eyes, curling her hair. She went for comfortably beautiful. Jeans, converse, and a split second pick of his maroon plaid shirt from the floor.

It was _his_ fault. (It wasn’t.) She told him to keep his clothes organized, or at least _together,_ for when she washed them. Whatever. He had a passion for leaving stuff _everywhere._

_“What's wrong with a little chaos?”_ She grinned, shaking her head as she shut the apartment door behind her. 

She wrote on her chalkboard, _downstairs bar w bell._

The bar was daunting, a fortress. It had been there, on the ground floor for all the years she’d lived there, but she’d never stepped foot inside. It was chaos, the kind there was nothing wrong with. It felt like a boiler room compared to the lobby, suffocating. She was lost.

Then, she saw him behind the bar, moving freely, easily, stirring, grinning. 

The room nearly revolved around him, from the lights to the smiles. 

Clarke had never been shy, but talking to random men had never really appealed to her. Regardless of her efforts, she was stopped twice on the way to the bar.

Escaping, she sat down before him. “Hey,” Bellamy said, throwing a towel over his shoulder. The golden light hid his sweat well, but she could tell he’d been working hard. “Made it through the hoard I see.” Teasing tickled his lips in a grin. He slid a sketchbook toward her. “We won’t be able to chat too much.” 

Like, her _literal_ sketch book. The dork planned this.

“I could be at home doing nothing, you know.” She flipped it open as the music strummed, a guitar piece. 

He rolled his eyes, slipping away to a customer. His hands worked, practiced smooth. Clarke leisurely sketched, watching him sweat with the rush of moving back and forth. He pocketed a five, and then a ten. Then, a _twenty._

His tip rate was astronomical. 

It was how pretty he was, and how his grin hid too much. She couldn’t help but feel proud of him. She was _so_ proud of him. 

But bitter on her tongue, crawling on her skin, wedging itself into her throat like an uninvited guest, jealousy surfaced. All Clarke could see was how beautiful they were, tall and slender, skin glowing, making her own mouth dry. 

A brunette leaned over the bar lecherously with a glint in her eye. 

_They flirt, return it._ Wiping his hands, he tilted forward too. Their lips moved in conversation. The music pounding in Clarke’s ears was suddenly so much louder.

He whisked the girl’s drink into existence, lifted it to his lips and took a sip before giving it to her. 

Clarke studied his jaw, how he swallowed, the flush of pink over his freckles. Her grip tightened on her pencil, and set to drawing. She sketched a glass of bourbon and a lemon slice. Just _not_ him. She was going out of her way to stay away from that rabbit hole.

Yet it was all she craved.

Every few minutes, his eye caught her, softening. She smiled back tiredly.

Even jealous, she felt warm at his existence.

That brunette girl’s lips tightened in disappointment, meeting Clarke, and flashing with petty irritation. Clarke sat straighter. He darted to the sink, to her, and turned it on.

“How’s the battle?” he whispered to her, spending an obscene amount of times washing his hands. Like he was staying near her as long as possible. 

_Clarke, don’t be stupid._ “I’m winning.”

His eyes flared. Fond grin. “As always.”

Then, he was off to do his job. Responsibility: how she hated it. 

The night went on like that, short hours, the jazz band singing. Another woman, then a man, and then someone unlabeled in her mind. Clarke felt ready to _crackle._ She asked him, “Can I have a drink?” the next time he was in her vicinity.

“ID?” he returned, wiggling his brows. His fingers whipped up a yellow concoction. “Lemme know how it tastes.” She held the cool drink in her palms, lathering the condensation, and sipped. It was some pineapple thingy, but not too sweet, and the liquor was a tad strong, exactly how she wanted it. She grinned without teeth, _it’s good._ His shoulders lifted like her opinion actually _mattered_ to him. 

Her heart tinged, aware before her mind, that it wasn’t likely.

She sipped again. Immediately, his gaze darkened with concern, eyeing the bar and the pummeling dance floor. “You keep an eye on your drink. _All_ the time.”

“I know, Bellamy.” Those dark, burdened eyes met hers, and the sound drowned away. 

“Clarke-“

“- _Get_ to work.” She giggled, pushing at his forearm, and the noise was back. She grew drunker, and drunker, lips cold, throat burning, heart beating in her ears, but at least the organ didn’t ache anymore when he decided to wink at someone.

At one point, a glaring Bellamy said, “No more,” to her, and she pouted.

Being drunk really destroyed one’s inhibitions, because she finally snapped when he nudged her awake, bar near closing. 

“Hey, Bellamy,” said that first, beautiful girl as Clarke wiped at her eyes. “Call me, yeah?”

He ran his hand through his hair. “See ya, Roma.” _He knew her name. “_ Sure thing.” 

Then, the girl was gone.

Clarke’s heart was not the kind that broke, snapping down the middle. It didn’t break; but it wandered, and it wavered, and each beat felt like a puncture. Her heart didn’t _break._ No.

All she could think was, _He had her number._

She heard noise, but she was running. “Clarke!” It was so cold outside, and she wasn’t dressed for it. His stupid flannel was not enough. She was not enough. 

It began to snow.

The next couple minutes blurred. (it could’ve been an hour.) her heart wasn’t breaking.

All she could think as she sat in an empty Taco Bell at two in the morning was, _I don’t like tacos._ A burrito lay before her. _He_ didn’t even like tacos. Raven did. Jasper did. His sister did, and he took her whenever he could afford it. Clarke would join them, because she liked Octavia, and she liked Bellamy too much. 

Her phone rang. 

She answered, the shattered screen tingling her cheek. _“Where are you?”_ his deep voice rumbled through.

His voice was so hot. _God._

“Hello!” she squealed. “Bellam-“

“- _Where are you.”_ Shivering down her spine, she leaned back in the ratty, red booth, pressing her knees together.

“Taco Bell, Bellamy. Taco Bellamy.” He giggled into her hand.

“ _Taco Bell.”_ He sounded angry, not at all amused. “ _You’re at Taco Bell.”_

She rolled her eyes, growing dizzy at the movement. _Silly boy._ “Yes.”

His tone softened. “ _Are you okay?”_

“I don’t like tacos.” He sighed, and she could picture him pinching his brows. 

_“Just stay on the phone with me, Princess.”_

So she did, chattering uselessly to her platonic absolute best of all friends _ever._ (“My heart’s _fine_.” 

_“What?”_

“It’s beating like it’s supposed to.” She poked her burrito with her finger, broke the skin. “It’s fine.” She felt ready to cry.

_“That’s nice.”_ )

Then, he was there, sliding in next to her. Her mind was so fucked, she couldn’t even remember how he knew where she was.

“Can you ask for hot sauce?” she pleaded, pulling out some real manipulative puppy eyes.

He raised a brow, but conceded, sliding out and coming back with three packets. “You should eat.” The burrito didn’t taste like anything but the sting of _spicy._ She kept eating, jaw moving monotonously.

After a bit, he asked, “Clarke,” she wiped her mouth, staring at her lap, “what’s wrong?”

_So much._ She wanted to answer, but she giggled instead. _Everything._ Her body was a shell, and she was a soul, hands pressed against _Taco Bell’s_ window watching as the snowflakes danced around her.

They must truly have a thing for surprising each other, for the worst timing, because her lips were slapped into his, teeth clicking. It stung, and her mouth _burned_ with vodka and hot sauce. 

But she was sure he kissed her too, sure she felt his tongue trace her lips. 

She was so drunk she couldn’t feel it. She wasn’t really sure of anything.

The contact was gone, and she opened her eyes to find his face stone, unreadable, maybe _regretful._ “You’re drunk.” 

He was right. She didn’t care.

“And you’re-“ she gulped, latching onto his shoulder, “-an _asshole.”_

Then, she kissed him again, or tried to; he pulled back far before she could trap him. 

“ _Clarke.”_

“I’m flirting with you,” she whined, desperate. “You’re _supposed_ to flirt back.” 

He slid his thumb over her cheek; hair she didn’t realize was stuck to her lip broke free, crooking behind her ear. Her eyes drifted shut, cheek pushing into his palm. His cool, heartbeating palm. 

“C’mere, my birthday girl.” 

He tugged her into his side, and she remembered nothing of the rest of the night. Except maybe that his heart sounded really kind, so steady, and being eighteen _sucked._

.. 

They were really good at not talking about it, whatever burned between them. 

(But things don’t burn forever. They need oxygen, fuel, _care._ )

..

.

.

**_iii._ **

(So many times, they kissed each other and,

she couldn’t remember 

the flavour.)

It started with tears. A random day.

She remembered she was an orphan. She remembered her father’s kindness, and how her mother used to kiss her cuts and bruises better. Clarke remembered her mother loved her, but she didn’t _care_. 

She remembered everything, and the loss, and the abuse.

Abby had ripped the apartment to shreds searching for money, yelling at Clarke. _Selfish. Entitled. An honest child would lend their mother some money._ Let their mother steal money they worked four days a week for. 

Fingernails branded into her wrist where her mother’d grabbed her. 

But she loved her mother, and remembered how Abby pushed her. _You could do so good. I love you._

Her mother was dead, just like dad.

At two in the morning, after crying for nearly an hour, she stalked into the bar. Bellamy was just closing up, and was definitely exhausted. She was a mess, a nuisance, he had a _life_ he needed to get to and-

He wrapped his arms around her the moment he saw her, tucking her into his heart. His lips whisper against her crown in the sorrow light of the bar. Her tears slipped as she locked her hands at the small of his back. They rocked there, door shutting softly behind her. An eye in the storm. She was such a small part of the world, but he made her feel like a priority. 

Never had she felt like that, always the one making hard choices and sacrifices to pick up the pieces. 

The death of her father; her mother getting fired and arrested for theft. Dying too. 

He had never felt that way either, she knew. He wouldn’t, even given the opportunity; it was a symptom of hating yourself.

She was so _tired._

After a narrowly passable closing, he dragged her up stairs. She felt like she was pushing through fog, thick on her lungs. He opened the door, shouting, “Anyone home!”

Not today. Lucky her. 

When the apartment was dark like this, Clarke felt like she was in a different world. Like everything said and felt were secrets. She toed her shoes off, and stripped down to nothing as she stumbled to his bedroom, her moms old room. The door flew open and she grabbed the first shirt of his she could find off the ground.

The mattress hit like a haven.

“I… uh-“ he cleared his throat. She squished her eyes shut, and heaved a breath, trying to capture how safe she felt here. It was the dark. He saw nothing.

“Get over here,” she whined, muffling into the sheets. “I’m sober.” 

She felt a dip in the mattress, and fingers on her shoulder blade. She strained to lift her chin, looking at him in the dark. His features were aching with worry, and an embarrassed flush was hiding behind his freckles. She couldn’t even care. 

She was in his shirt, in his bed. 

A man she loved, a man who- “I can make you feel better,” he murmured. Her heart was throbbing dully and her eyes were hurting. She wanted to take the offer. He would make her feel so good, and let her forget her mother wasn’t someone who loved her before she died. 

It was in the dark, and it could be another secret. 

“No.” She shook her head instead. “Just hold me.”

Somewhere between the hours, she heard him mumbling: all the nothings and everythings, but she held him tighter.

..

  
  


She wanted to run in the morning.

With a surge, she awoke, naked all but for his shirt, wrapped in sheets. Her mind replayed her little strip tease over and over in her mind.

There was the familiar sound of him clattering around, and her nose picked up the smell of cinnamon and eggs. French toast?

She groaned, throwing the sheet over her head in embarrassment. 

He was _so_ sweet, in his detached little ways, protectively and overwhelmingly _there_. Making her fucking breakfast as she lay in _his_ bed.

She rose, and on the bedside, there was a note that said, “ _Good morning,”_ in small, hardpressed letters. 

So sweet. 

She was correct on the French toast. He turned at the stove and saw her; she waited for awkwardness. “Good morning,” he started with a grin. 

Then, when they were done eating, sitting on that dreadful couch, his demeanour shifted. There it was: awkward. “About last night…” 

_I can make you feel better._

He said it reluctantly, unsure. Like maybe he was relieved she turned him down. Bellamy would always take care of her, in any way she needed, and she was glad she hadn’t given him one more thing to regret. 

One more secret.

“I wasn’t in the mood for popcorn or a story,” she leaned over the couch, resting her hand on his, “or whatever else you had in mind.” 

Diffuse the situation. Ignore the problem.

“Yeah.” He clenched his teeth. The silence was thick. “They’ll be over at noon.” He stood, grabbing her plate and moving to the sink. Like the mother hen he was. “You should put some pants on.”

She started, looking down. 

That same black and red flannel sat buttoned up to her sternum, far too big in the shoulders, just a tad loose around her bust. Her cheeks flared. She felt safe in his too big clothes, and she figured he couldn’t relate.

In her room, she dressed in shorts, a sports bra and tank top, throwing the flannel back on, just to keep warm.

..

Three weeks later, after barely seeing him—she’d sworn to _god,_ he’d been avoiding her—he asked her on a date. 

There was such a beautiful simplicity behind it, so much confusion. He just walked into the library on a Sunday afternoon before his shift, tensing up, and asked, “Would you wanna go out with me?” He slapped his palms on the counter, then backed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe?”

She didn’t know what to say, mouth gaping.

The machine in her hand beeped on barcodes she didn’t mean to scan, causing even more confusion to rattle in her mind. Remind filled with his skittishness, and how he always ran the other way. She’d badgered Miller even. _Where’s Bellamy?_ The bastard had _shrugged._

“You aren’t avoiding me?” she muttered, setting down the scanner.

His brows shot high, brazen stance collapsing. “What?”

Anger flared in her chest, thanking any higher power that the library was empty. “I kissed you and suddenly, you wanted nothing to do with me.” 

He tensed. “You remembered?”

Her tone hardened. “Yes, Bellamy. I did.” 

“And the rest of it?”

“Of what?” 

He grinned, but it wasn’t genuine; it ached like there were pins pushing beneath his fingernails. “Of course you’d forget that part.” He pocketed his hands. What confidence he started with was quickly leaving him behind.

“What part?” 

He didn’t answer. She _hated_ when he did that, shut down, (like the hypocrite she was.) _Talk to me, it’s okay,_ she’d said to him many times, in the dead of night. _You can trust me._ And he had. 

“Bellamy,” fell from her lips, pliant, begging, nearly whining. _Trust_. He blinked down at her, swallowing. 

“We talked about some dating stuff, uh,” he hesitated, “something like that.” His cheeks flamed up but he kept her gaze. Her breath caught, jaw clenching as she tried to exhale in peace. Remind herself that she was at _work._

Could they stop having these conversations at work? 

“Okay,” she started, calming her heart. She was tired of this. “We need to talk. Say exactly what we want, okay?” His gaze flickered everywhere. “Bellamy, we need to communicate.”

He swallowed again.

As he turned to leave, she answered his question, figuring it was cruel to leave him obsessing over it, “Yes,” she reached for his hand over the desk, and nearly underestimated her reach. He gave her his hand, catching her weight shift. Squeezes it. “I’ll go out with you,” their eyes met as she sighed brittlely, “but we need to talk _first_.”

He still said nothing, but there was a shell of a smile on his face, and it finally looked right.

..

The apartment door opened to the smell of garlic. 

Murphy raised a brow at her jumpiness, at the way her eyes ripped through the apartment. “I’m making spaghetti.” She resisted the urge to cross her arms. 

Library books sat on the table and condensation formed on the new microwave window above the stove.

He bought that microwave about a week ago.

He wasn’t there.

Murphy cooked while they all laughed, and then they ate. Clarke grumbled to herself, and leaned back against the counter. _Where was he?_

..

“Let’s talk.”

She woke to his face, lying among the delinquents. Bruise on his cheek. Again. A _bruise_ . _Why?_ The mark dissolved her impatience, like snow in water.

“Not here,” she murmured, pushing off the couch and pulling him out the door.

So they walked to the bus stop in silence. Blistering, aching silence. Their hands stayed latched.

“What exactly don’t I remember?” she finally started, after five minutes at the stop. He stayed quiet.

The bus screeched in before them, glowing yellow beneath the street lamp. One man got off.

They got on, and though it was nearly empty, they chose a window seat near the back. After sitting, the lights simmered down, a cloak. The bus revved forward, and it felt like an omen. This journey had begun. They couldn’t back out. 

Glancing over at him, Clarke tried to steady her breathing. 

He stared out the bus’s window, into nothing but the burn of amber lights as they flew by them.

A lady across from them, one of the only other people on the bus, her bag wiggled, like a rodent was inside.

He sighed, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat. He finally answered her question. “You kissed me.” She nodded. “Talked about living in Rome, and then tried to get me to have sex with you.” Through each word, Clarke hunched more with shame. 

“I remember that,” she muttered.

He nudged her with his elbow; his little way of _it’s alright._ “I said if you kissed when you were sober-“ He stopped, voice wincing, and sat up straighter. “Why were you so drunk?”

Her voice was clipped, quiet. “You supplied it.”

“Assuming you’d be responsible.” He turned to her. “You’re _always_ responsible, and yeah, I shouldn’t have given you _any_ , but _what were you thinking?_ ”

She shrugged. It wasn’t direct. She was breaking her own rule. _Say what we want. Honesty. Communicate._ If she expected it from him, she should at least expect it from herself, right? 

But it was hard. She tried.

“I was thinking about how cute you and Roma were,” she settled on. 

Her heart shut down, and she felt nothing. “I was upset all those beautiful girls had your attention.” He was silent again, before:

“You were jealous.”

Yes. No. Perhaps. He wasn’t _hers_ . Maybe it was that she loved him, and she was right _there,_ and still not worth the time. He reached for her hand, flinching at the contact, before latching on, squeezing her numb palm.

“It’s a job, Princess.” 

She stared straight, counting every street light they passed, watching tha stupid bag twitch. “I know.”

“Don’t shut down on me.” She shrugged, hearing his hurt tone, the way he whispered like not being heard would kill him, but not processing it. “ _-Clarke_.”

He grabbed her chin, and pushed his lips into hers. 

It wasn’t a harsh grab, but strong and _his._ Overbearingly, overprotectively, overwhelmingly _there._

His knuckles weren’t bleeding, (his cheek was), and she wasn’t dizzy on vodka. _Talk,_ she’d said, but they were such physical people. They said such heartwrenching things, and froze up in the aftermath. _Talk._

It had been a brief talk, but it said what was needed.

He pulled back and collapsed against the bus seat. The clumpy fabric dug into her thighs as she ground her hands down into them. They drove for a time, but the bus eventually slowed to a stop.

“Let’s get off here.” 

Grabbing his hand, she dragged him with her. It was a place in the midst of the trees, asphalt cracked and cold beneath their feet. A middle of nowhere gas station. She walked passed it, into the woods, where the ground was damp and covered in moss, but the snow of weeks ago had warmed enough to be liquid. Still chilly, but in a mist of rain, the kind a rainbow would occupy if it was day.

She remembered coming here with her father. An old hangout spot of his when he was a kid, a place he’d shown her only once. He’d pull her into the woods, to the train, where the tracks resided, wrangled and rusty. 

So that was where she pulled Bellamy. 

He didn’t say no. 

She wanted him to learn _how_ to say no. Now, it didn’t matter too much. Now, he wanted peace, and companionship. He wanted her. And she wanted him, and if he ever needed to say no- well she hoped he would. She hoped he would say no to her.

She tugged his wrist. A stick crunched beneath her foot. This was it, she realized.

It had been so long, she’d forgotten what the woods smelled like. Three train cars were derailed and overgrown with moss, a sheen of dampness barely sparked by the moon. 

The cars were three or four feet taller than her, but she heaved her way up immediately. Not wanting to dwell on where she knew her name was carved, just next to her father’s. 

At the top, the trees felt smaller.

She turned to look down at him, extending a hand to him. “Get up here.”

His brows rose as he climbed the rungs, took her hand. He planted beside her, legs stretched out, ankles locked. Quiet. It was in his brow, in how he wasn’t breathing. Her first instinct was to kiss him, let him avoid whatever was hurting. This wasn’t about her. This ache in him was about his cheek.

“Are you okay?” 

His eyes met hers, and, “no.” She’d already known that answer. 

His hands were his pockets. They were always in his pockets. And maybe he hated her, or loved her, and maybe he hated himself, but she crawled forward. Her jeans were dirty and sore, but by comparison to this boy, they felt freshly washed. He was all mud, so far from clarity.

He hardened as she slid into his space.

Crooking in the jagged curve of his dark skin, locking her bare, goosebumped arms at the small of his back, she sighed. Her knees rested at the side of his thighs.

His breathing shallowed. _I’m here._

His hands emerged from the depths, wrapping around her. Bellamy’s nose curled into the base of her neck. His ankles lifted, tucking her between his thighs and hips. There was a tremble in his shoulders, a fragility. His sigh was crying. 

It was release.

“It’s too bad it’s cloudy-ish,” Clarke whispered, lifting her hand to the nape of his neck, tickling his curls. “You know all about the constellations.” 

The woods were creeping. 

“My mother’s newest boyfriend,” he whispered into her neck, “he came down to the bar.” She kissed his cheek, right where it swelled and bruised. She didn’t need to hear the rest, didn’t want; Clarke could see it, in how he held his family close, and protected them. Knew how quick he was to react to strangers and their insults.

_I’m here._

Her grip on him tightened. They were soaking wet on a train car, broken. Together. They were so broken. _I’m here._

Hours lingered, and they did not move, but her arms slipped under his jacket, locking on the small of his back. Close. She wanted to be close. He needed to be.

The rain softened, skies clearing into a warm midnight purple. 

His second initiation of words: “There’s Cassiopeia.”

She pulled away, giving him a soft smile, pivoting to look at the sky. He tugged her back in immediately, her shoulders smacking his chest. 

He told her stories written in stars, and taking her wrist, he pointed to the Big Dipper. The Little Dipper, and then Orion: it was one of his favourites.

“Those three are his belt,” he said. She snuggled back into him. He chin dropped into her shoulder. It fit so well there.

It was very pretty. The sky. The stars. The Milky Way was a ravine, one they were falling into.

Her cheeks were pink, she was sure, but the purple of the sky hid it—hopefully—actually why desire to hide this? She trusted Bellamy. No more hiding.

“We should go home, Princess.”

She turned on him again, shifting on her knees to see him. Wind blew through the trees like grass. Clarke shivered, A jacket wrapped around her shoulders. It was heavy wet, and so very useless at this point. Still, he propped the collar.

The night was thick in her throat. It gushed with poignance. She looked at the boy—or a man. He was nineteen.

His childhood was over.

(She knew he never really had one.)

His fingers slipped the stray hair from her face. One of her favourite ways he touched her. Her heart abused her ribcage. Her heart was so very breakable. 

All for him, she decided. She’d let him break her heart.

Jacket resting on her shoulders, Clarke tilted forward, metal digging into her knees. Her lips pressed into his chin, the cuteness in the dent there. 

His breath caught. 

Her affection still surprised him, and she hated that. She tilted her head up a few centimetres, and her eyes held his in a trance. She watched his soften and darken all at once.

He fell into her, hesitantly, and she caught him, mouth cradling his.

His eyes squeezed shut as hers drifted between in limbo. Relaxing, she shut hers too, her fingers threading into his curls. She pulled him on top of her—a thud, a rickety collapse—between her muddy, soaking legs. His jacket pressed between her and the metal.

So many sizes too big, but she felt warm. 

Their lips touched: it burned. Their tongues brushed: it tingled. Hands roamed, but never stole. She couldn’t feel through her bliss, or she felt everything. The haze was so thick in their exploration. A comfortable sort of contact. She knew it was a safe one, but it felt that way.

He gasped, collapsing into her neck. 

She gasped back, again and again, her breasts heaving against him. Her back was on a box spring, canals digging into her spine. She hadn’t even noticed before, too caught up in his soul. The way he groaned, and cried.

Bellamy stared up at her.

Hesitate. He grinned, his hand cupped her cheek. He pressed his body flush against her, and all her cold turned into heat, throbbing in her stomach. He pushed up to kiss her again, again, breath stuttering. 

And one more time, like he couldn’t have enough.

Like she was burning him too. 

It was so weird, how humans were designed to fit together she thought into his lips, regardless of gender, or even shape. There was always somewhere to fit. Thighs cradled hips. Fingers tangled hair. Lips captured. 

She had fit with others. With him, even.

They slid together so well; and she had been with others, yes, but it had never felt like _this_. So safe, but also burning up. Maybe it was how in love with him she was. 

“I don’t wanna go home,” he said, forehead falling into her lips. 

Even that was the perfect distance. 

“Me either.” He kissed her again. She swallowed. “This isn’t a secret in the dark, right?” His thumb rubbed at her thigh. The northern lights raged above them suddenly, a green dancer. “This is real?” 

He sat her up. “As real as you’ll have me.”

So she kissed him, because _I’m here_ and his huge jacket was over her shoulders, and she’ll have him in every way.

..

The night went on after they talked. A bus home, a bed where they slept, sleeping for hours.

Somehow, even though they’ve emerged from each other’s rooms before, their friends knew instantly. 

Clarke rubbed her eyes near noon, trying not to wake him. He had to work again tonight. She kissed his sleeping lips, amazed by his brows and their softness, and how she almost couldn’t see the wrinkle between them. She could though. It was always there.

She kissed that too.

And in the living room, where they all sat, chatting, eating, braiding hair and burning things, they knew. Right from her first step out his door.

They were freaking out, frothing at the mouth, but they kept it quiet: a whisper-yell, (because they knew Bellamy had to work too). 

Clarke was so overwhelmed but _happy._

..

.

.

**_iv._ **

(Once, she kissed him; 

and he tasted like 

_her._ )

  
  


Their lives continued on, in a place that was _his_ in name _,_ but also hers, because he was hers. 

Three days after that Sunday where they became each other’s officially. (She’d been his for so long.) (He’d argue. Say he’d been hers since the first drawing under the door.)

Anyway, Wednesday night, she took off his shirt, and he unbuttoned the red flannel off hers, slid it down her arms.

The bed was a haven. 

A dark secret she wanted to scream to the world. He kissed her cheek, her collar, and everywhere he could. He loved her thighs, and her stomach, everywhere she let him touch. He loved her stretch marks and the hair she left on her legs when she was lazy. “ _I love you,”_ she told him first in the dead of that night, before they went much farther.

He was so shocked. So astounded. She took his cheeks in her hands, pulling him up to cuddle and said it again, “I love you, Bellamy.”

He believed it, she saw the flicker in his eyes.

He grinned, pecked her lips. “I love you,” she repeated. “I love-“

“-God, I love you too,” he chuckled, pressing raspberries everywhere he could. She laughed, giggled, snorted: all the weird sounds as he tickled her. 

Then, moaned. He reached so far. Her body felt like it never had, tingling and crackling. And when euphoria hit, he rose, pressing his gasping mouth to hers. 

She gripped his hair, cradled his neck. 

In her arms, bronzed and sated, he whispered, “Live with me.”

She froze. 

She held his hand and promised silently that they’d make this work. Yeah, there was banging beneath the floor, and holes in the walls. “I already do.”

He sighed: “not here. When we leave.” He laughed. “When we can afford to leave.” She kissed him, groaning at the taste of her on his lips, the taste of the promises they made to each other. 

“I love you,” she whispered. He better believe her. 

_.._

_._

_._

**_v._ **

epilogue.

(This one tasted like soap.)

He kissed her like he wanted her, like he didn’t believe she was there.

After grad, she did not go to university. Instead, she got an apprenticeship with Lincoln. Her dad would be proud, her mom would be disappointed.

Clarke was happy.

She told Bellamy he was good enough and he almost believed her. She encouraged him to take some night classes, so he did. Philosophy and history. 

“ _What am I gonna do with that,”_ he’d asked, staring at the beat up computer. Classes on the screen.

“ _Teach_ ,” she’d answered, kissing his ear. 

..

.

.

They were doing the dishes, in their new home. 

She threw a handful of bubbles in his face and he just couldn’t have that, so now she was on the counter, kissing him into nothingness. He tasted like soap, and that was _disgusting._

Their alarm went. “ _Fuck,”_ he said.

She joked, “Later.”

She began to laugh, a low, chaotic sound, and he did too, face in her shoulder. She dug her fingers into his dress shirt, surely bubble stained.

“I gotta get to the parlour,” she said. 

He sighed. “I know.” He kissed her again. “The gang will be over later.” She pushed off the counter, looking up at him. At his curls and heavy eyes.

She was so proud. He worked so hard for this. He was a teacher. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Blake.” He chuckled thickly, gaze flitting over her. 

“Later then.” 

..

.

.

**_~fin_ **

  
  



End file.
